All the World is Waiting for the Sun
by itlookslikeIcan'tdeletethis
Summary: A 3 part story, written completely out of the context of the books. Three different POVs. Ginny, Harry, Hermione, in chronological order from a devastating death. Unexplained previous plot included, sorry if it's confusing! Story way better than summary.
1. Arrival of a Bee Sting

It had just been a dream.

Deep in her slumber, tucked warmly in her Gryffindor bed, 17 year old Ginny had been sleeping peacefully when she had heard it. A cry. A shout. A scream that was past anguished and horrifyingly close to blood-curling.

But it had just been a dream.

The scream pierced through Ginny's slumber, shooting through her brain and traveling sharply throughout her body, making her suddenly snap up. She shuddered violently, her breathing labored and her skin chilled, even with her blankets still curled around her. Sweat had built on the brim of her forehead, soaking the roots of her red hair, and panic had also reflected in her eyes, Ginny's gaze darting around the girl's dormitory.

It had just been a dream.

What stared back at her was darkness. No light was apart of the room, not even a glow from the moon outside, and it took Ginny a moment to focus on her surroundings. All was still. Nothing seemed to be disturbed, not one of the girls awake, each of them sleeping deeply. There was even a small sound of a snore from across the way, and that was the only fragment of noise in the room. Everything appeared to be normal. Everything seemed to be all right.

And, it had just been a dream.

Just as Ginny was finishing with calming herself down, slowly descending back into her bed, she heard it again. It felt as though the scream shook every wall of Hogwarts, startling the very air of the school while a thick blanket of tension seized the atmosphere. It jolted Ginny once more, snapping straight up for a second time, and she peered stonily at the exit to the girl's dormitories, wondering for a brief instant whether she was imagining things or not.

But, then Ginny heard the scream for a third time.

And, it hadn't just been a dream.

On an urgent impulse, one that took her over in the blink of an eye, Ginny was out of bed and out the door, racing down the steps and shooting out of the Gryffindor common room. She began to tour the hallways of the castle, feet barely hitting the ground as she went up and down stairwells and skidded around corners. The girl had no idea where she was going, what had happened to make her suddenly so panicked. All she knew that something was leading her, something was pushing her from behind, and things didn't come to a dead halt until she reached the hallway that led to Dumbledore's office.

The eagle statue was just in the works of rotating, slowly ascending, carrying along two people with it. They both stood on the first step, one of them being Headmaster Dumbledore, the elderly man tired but understanding as he placed a hand on the shoulder of the person next to him, it being a woman with strikingly familiar red hair. From the distance she was at, Ginny didn't catch her face, but when the eagle staircase was about to take both her and Dumbledore out of sight, Ginny caught a glimpse at who she was.

Molly Weasley. Her mother.

Something cracked painfully inside of Ginny, memories of all those times when Dumbledore announced the death of Charlie, the death of Bill, the death of Percy, the death of Fred, and the death of George most recently washing over her and reminding her too much of what was happening just then. Stubbornly, though, she uprooted herself from her spot and walked down to the opposite end of the corridor, pausing in her quiet footsteps next to someone she was glad to see, but also hated for being there.

Hermione's body was straightened like a board, her muscles flexed and veins tense that pulsed against her skin. Her hands were gripped into tight fists, knuckles ghost white, with her face drained of color, lips pale and taut into a straight line. She was trembling; shaking ever so slightly not from cold, but from something else, her body so rigid that it seemed nothing could try and break her down. And, her eyes, the eyes that didn't bother to glance at Ginny but merely stayed straight ahead, unblinking and cold, were suddenly a color of shocking gold, glowing vehemently without any traces of emotion or feeling whatsoever.

The realization from taking in her presence crashed over Ginny much too soon.

In less than thirty seconds, Hermione Granger had become a mere skeleton of the girl Ginny had gotten to know from even before her first year up until now. If anything, Hermione was gone; the spark that had once always been apart of her, even during the worst of times, had vanished, like hope itself had been snatched away from her and had been replaced with something ugly. The breath had been sucked out of her and in return, poison had been injected, and now all that remained of the girl was an empty body, one that looked unbreakable but contained a shattered heart, and a frozen, harsh stare.

Again, Ginny felt her insides crack, something crumbling from deep within. Desperately, though, she kept her composure, reaching a hand out to Hermione's forearm and wrapping her fingers around the ice-cold, pale skin.

"Hermione..." Ginny began, swallowing hard. "Hermione... what happened... why... why is mum here? Did something happen to... to... someone?" she faltered.

Hope took in a sharp breath, her body hardening even more than it already was. And, after a few seconds of bitter silence, she looked over to Ginny, her penetrating eyes locking with hers.

"He's dead, Ginny," Hermione said, cold and emotionless. "Ron is dead."

_Just say goodbye. I __live__ and I'll __die__, hooked on a _**star**_, enraptured by the sky,  
In __love__ with a _**satellite**


	2. We Both Go Down Together

Ronald Bilius Weasley, more commonly known as Ron, died at age seventeen on December 11, 1997. He was first attacked by a spell, presumed to be Sectumsempra, that tore through his shirt and left a scar from his stomach to his pelvis, and his forehead to his chin.

_"It won't be the same without you there, you know..."_

He was then hit directly in the chest by the Killing Curse. The spell stopped the oxygen flow to the rest of his body, his brain shutting down and blood being unable to be produced as his heart was quickly forced to die.

_"Out of all the people I want to get approval from, it's your approval that I need to have the most..."_

After being taken to St. Mungo's, he remained on life support until 12:10 AM where he was announced dead. From there, he was then examined by a coroner who stated that his official time of death was 12:03.

_"And, while my heart will forever be with my family..."_

The coroner also revealed that he had been murdered, with his perpetrator unknown.

_"... I will always remember you and Hermione, Harry."_

But Harry already knew all of that.

Harry knew that Ron had died at age seventeen, that he had been killed only three minutes into December 20, three minutes after midnight. He knew that he had been attacked with another spell only seconds before being hit with the Killing Curse, of which he knew every consequence he suffered from before his heart finally stopped. He knew that he had been taken to St. Mungo's for immediate medical care, that all they could do for him once he got there was put him on life support, and that he was taken off of it at 12:10 in the morning per his mother's request. He knew he had been examined by a coroner to learn when his exact time of death was and anything else of importance. He knew he had been murdered. He knew that their mission was to stay undercover, not let anyone know that they weren't students anymore. He knew.

Harry knew what had happened. What Harry did not know was why.

_"Harry! What are you doing still up?..."_

He did not know why Ron had had that argument in the dungeon hallway earlier that previous day, whoever it had been with. He did not know why they had fought in the first place and why it had led to the dark invitation of midnight being proposed.

_"I'm waiting for the signal..."_

Harry did not know why he had lied to him about staying awake, why he had kept his true reason to himself. Harry did not know why he had believed him, why he hadn't pursued it further, why he hadn't asked any questions on what he had overheard.

_"Midnight ..."_

Harry did not know why he had actually gone to the lake's edge at midnight, why he had even dared to do so, why he had risked so much by doing that. Harry did not know why he hadn't been more prepared for what could have happened, what did happen, and he ultimately did not know why he had been killed, let alone who had killed him.

_"It's in case I don't make it..."_

But, most of all, Harry did not know why he hadn't seen it coming. Harry did not know why he hadn't caught it before it had happened, why he didn't try to stop it even when he saw the tragedy coming towards him, why he hadn't done anything at all. Harry did not know why he hadn't protected his best friend better, why he hadn't done a better job of keeping him safe from what he knew could happen to Ron because of him, and why ... why ... why ...

_"... Always remember me, Harry."_

Harry didn't know why he hadn't been able to save him.

He had tried.

It was well into the December morning, dawn on the verge of breaking but night not going down without a fight. Darkness had engulfed the sky. Even the snow that covered the grounds that surrounded Hogwarts, giving off a silver glow, was dimmed, thick clouds of mist rolling over and blackening the last piece of light. Shadows had stolen the castle, stretching near and far, and it was enough to leave one wondering if the sun could rise, if it would ever be able to rise again.

He had tried hard.

The only light given in the Gryffindor common room was the remnants of the fire in the fireplace, a dull color of gold touching the room. However, the attempt remained futile, as the little light only created vast shadows against the walls, stretching over the floor, its black fingers wrapping around everything present, squeezing tightly until there was nothing left.

He had tried so hard.

Harry was their prized victim. Harry was always the prized victim. Sitting in the center of the couch, legs pulled up and curled beneath him, Harry nearly helped the darkness in trapping him, hands gripping the edge of the sofa as he lowered his head, his hair partially shielding his face. Harry allowed the shadows to seize him, holding him in one position until his muscles had numbed, until his movements had been paralyzed, until he could breathe without it even being noticed. Everything was black, the darkness slowly taking over the weak firelight as well. Everything was hidden, and not even Harry could find where he was, wherever he was.

He had tried so damn hard.

Words had been snatched away from the boy, along with everything else. His mind was silent, only quiet memories being heard as they whispered into his ears, barely audible thoughts being spoken by his conscience while it slowly came to realization. It all stood still for him – what had happened, what was going to happen, time itself stood still. It was all still, all stuck, all caught somewhere that couldn't be identified, recognized, labeled with technicalities, or even explained with eloquent words. It was frozen, like Harry himself. It was like December 11 had begun and would never end.

But, while Harry had indeed fallen off the edge and had met the ground, he still was far from stupid and knew quiet well that morning would eventually come, the day would breeze by, and soon another day would begin. Time would keep moving, slightly stirred by what had happened, but no more than usual. It would move on. Everyone would move on. Everything would move on.

Harry did not dare.

In this moment that he was inevitably trapped in, he allowed things to be reflected in a most stoic manner, and he allowed herself to process them with the same attitude. He gathered everything that had happened – from that night, from all the nights before, from all the nights he would endure again – and placed it before him gently, like something undisturbed, like something he had never touched before.

And, he had tried and tried and tried.

Harry had tried so hard. He had set his distances. He had gone into exile. He had been pushed into being alone, either against his will or by choice. He had tried so hard to separate herself from the others to protect them, to keep them safe, to make sure that they knew as little as possible for the sake of their own lives. He had tried. He had tried. He had tried so hard.

And, he had failed.

For as long as he could remember, kept hidden in the depths of his heart, Harry had known he had a destiny. He had known he had a fate, something planned for him, no matter what the prophecy said about a choice. He had known the entire time, but what had he done? First, he had tried to ignore it. He had tried to run away from it, he had tried to pretend it wasn't even there, believing that it was his own life, it was his own choice, and he'd always have options.

In response to such ignorance, his seventeenth birthday had crashed and burned, revealing the truth for all to see, himself especially. But, even then, what had he done? He had tried to deny it. He had tried to find a way around it. Merlin, he had tried to move on from it, like he could find an escape from it, like it wouldn't catch up with him in the end.

But, he couldn't have been more wrong.

Since seventh year had begun, Harry had been searching for guidance, a sign of some sort that would tell him where to go, what he should do next, but what he had failed to realize was that he already had a path to take. It was the one paved right in front of him, words of his prophecy, breathed against the wind that continued to call him forth. It had been right in front of him! It had been right there!

And, Harry had ignored it altogether.

It had been his last attempt - no, last chance - at ignorance, and it had been taken away from him like his breath being knocked right out of his chest. He had his parents taken away from him, his father and mother dead. He had betrayed his friends. His reputation was shattered, the Wizarding world fearing him. He was alone. His one love could never love him. And, just when Harry thought he had lost everything, he found that he really only had more to lose.

Ron was dead. Mrs. Weasley's only remaining son was gone. Hermione's true soulmate was gone. Ginny's last brother was gone. Harry's best friend and near brother was gone. Ron was dead, murdered in a fraction of a second, murdered right before his eyes. Harry's best friend was gone, and the worst part about it, the bitter truth of it all, was that he was dead because of him.

It was all because of him.

Now, more than ever, Harry's fate was beckoning him. Whispers of his prophecy brushed against his ears, and he could feel himself giving in. The shadows that were latched onto him slipped through his skin and swallowed him from the inside. The darkness took him over, destroying the little that was left. As it all caved in, as Harry finally let go and no longer resisted, every emotion that had remained after his seventeenth birthday was blown away. Every piece of him that had tried to fight off the inevitable, every urge that had told him to run away, it all vanished. All he felt was the poison of that night, and after awhile, he didn't even feel that anymore.

Harry didn't feel anything anymore.

And, that's how it was meant to be.

In that moment, the one he allowed herself, the one of truth, Harry made what he believed to be the last decision he needed to make, it all coming together. Nothing more would be lost if he did what he was supposed to do. Nothing more would be taken away if he went to where he belonged. Nothing more would be broken if he became the person he was destined to be.

Remembering to breathe would not make everything all right. Acceptance ... acceptance would make everything all right. Even if it meant never having control of his life. Even if it meant never being happy.

Even if it meant giving up hope.

Opening his eyes, pained orbs of piercing emerald green being the only thing left illuminating his figure, Harry looked to where his arms rested on his knees, and movement returned to him. His right hand began to travel, slipping into his pocket and not stopping until reaching the bottom. His fingers were instantly greeted by a piece of jewelry, and he was transfixed by it for a brief moment.

It was such a simple bracelet, its only decoration being some charms in the shape of tears, being kept together by a silver chain. It was such a simple bracelet, nothing extraordinary, nothing special. One had to wonder what it could have possibly held that made Harry keep it for so long, what had made him keep it for so long. It shouldn't have meant anything. It couldn't have meant anything. It didn't mean anything.

It never meant anything.

Without a single thought, Harry unfastened the clasp and the bracelet slipped out of his hand. Ron had given it to him, to give to Hermione. Harry had never wondered why Ron couldn't do it himself.

It never meant anything.

He held one end between his fingers, lifting his hand and letting the piece hang in front of his face.

It never meant anything.

He moved his arm and dangled it above the coffee table, dangling it right above the opened photo album that he had given Hermione last Christmas, dangling it right over the picture of him, Ron, and Hermione laughing at Neville, being attacked by a stray Niffler, together.

It never meant anything.

And, then, he let it drop...

Harry stood from the couch. Leaving both the photo album and the bracelet, he walked around the sofa and to the exit. He lacked hesitance. He lacked fear. He lacked remorse. He lacked feeling altogether, and the only thing that was keeping him going was the fact that he had somewhere to be.

He had someone to be.

Before he exited the common room, Harry paused and glanced over his shoulder. He did not look to the coffee table, but instead to the stairs that led to the girl's dormitories, and he stared hard at the nothingness before him, into the darkness, wearing no expression, holding no tone as he spoke.

"It never meant anything," he told the empty room firmly.

With that, Harry left. He left without another word, another thought. He left behind all that he had once known. And, he left behind the boy he used to know, hidden beneath his Invisibility Cloak, the boy who had watched it all, who had heard it all, and the boy who had held on.

He let go of his best friend.

_**Gold**__ and __**red**__ the colors change as you can't __forget__  
Turning __back__, you know I thought I knew, thought I knew __someone_


	3. Without You

"You didn't have to do this."

Even though the words came from her, Hermione barely knew the voice. It was foreign, really, not sounding the least familiar, and Hermione winced. Seeing as how it was about the first time she had spoken since Christmas, she supposed it was understandable that she did not even recognize her own voice, but even so, a cringe withered down her spine and made her steps more brisk than they already were as she turned onto a new hallway.

Walking with her to the chapel where Ron's funeral would be taking place that December evening, Blaise looked up from where he had been fingering his black tie, matching the rest of his dark, semi-formal attire. His ocean eyes were gentle when they met Hermione's gaze, almost as though he knew of the nasty taste that had entered Hermione's mouth on account of not being familiar with her voice, but his expression remained impassive, shrugging.

"I wanted to," he stated, explaining a beat later, "I knew Ron through Transfiguration. We were partners mainly because it's my best subject, though wasn't for him, and McGonagall had hoped I could help him with his grade. And, even though it was quite obvious that we were both wary of each other's opposing Houses, we surprisingly got along. He even made me chuckle once when he transfigured his own nose into a bird's beak rather than the nose of a monkey."

Hermione took her eyes back to the floor. "Well," she spoke after a moment, "Still. You didn't have to do this."

As she repeated herself, the pair came to a hesitant stop at the end of the corridor. Standing before them were the double, oak doors that lead to the chapel where the small service would soon be commencing, the closed entrance looming over them both, especially Hermione, or so it felt. On the other side, Hermione heard the indistinct shuffling of movement from others who had already arrived, a solemn piano playing in the background to set the mood for the imminent grief, and the girl frowned, Blaise's voice entering the air once more.

"I wanted to," he told her again, discreet sincerity laced into his usual, monotone voice, and his words made Hermione look back to him. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

A booming _NO!_ resonated from the depths of Hermione's mind in response, and only more dark thoughts followed. What she wanted was to not be there, standing there at that very moment. What she wanted was to return to the Zabini Manor, lock herself in her guest room, and bury herself beneath the covers, wishing that what had happened was both a dream that would eventually end and a nightmare that she would soon wake up from. Well, for that matter, what Hermione wanted was for Ron to be alive.

But, Hermione did not voice any of that, instead looking to the double doors ahead of her. "Sure," she remarked, her words bitter and sarcastic. "He's already dead. What's the worse that can happen?"

"Hermione!"

Hermione winced at the sound of her name. "Spoke too soon," she murmured before turning her head to see Harry Potter walking towards where she and Blaise stood.

The boy was the same as he was when Hermione had met him on the train, her first time to Hogwarts, only rather than the teasing smile he had usually been caught wearing, Harry bore a forced and terribly depressing half of a grin, his expression pale with dark circles painted beneath his tear-dried eyes. Remorse was pressed into his every movement, even when he reached Hermione and pulled her into a brief, but tight hug, Hermione stiffening in his grasp and remaining so once he stepped back. Something yanked painfully at her chest by his touch, the feeling only worsening when his gaze met her own.

"Harry," Hermione greeted, and she gestured to Blaise. "Harry, this is Blaise Zabini." She gave both the boys a warning glance, adding, "Ron and Harry were best friends at Hogwarts, in case you didn't remember."

Blaise's eyes narrowed, though only slightly, as two males shook hands. Harry swallowed, "Look, Zabini, we've never spoken before, and we have no history together, so, just for Ron's sake, today, could we, maybe ... ?" He left the sentence unfinished, waiting for Blaise to answer.

Blaise nodded, "No hard feelings, eh, Potter?" he said, almost cracking a smile.

"Yeah," Harry said, relieved, "We Gryffindors really aren't that bad, are we?"

"Thanks for coming," Hermione told Blaise again before looking back to Harry. "And you, thanks for being so understanding about this."

Harry nodded, then added in her direction, "How are you holding up?"

Just like with Blaise's question of before, Hermione felt poisonous words roll about her tongue, such as the sarcastic comment of how she couldn't even look Harry in the eye without feeling like her heart was about to flatline, wondering if that would be able to summarize her current mood. A quiet touch of Blaise's hand against hers, however, had Hermione swallowing down the remarks, her shoulders rippling upward into a shrug.

"Don't worry about me," she assured Harry. "How are you?"

Harry eyed the closed doors to the chapel. "Worse than most. Better than some."

Hermione easily detected what his words were referring to, asking on cue, "How is Mrs. Weasley doing?"

Harry sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Bloody hell," he answered, subconsciously channeling Ron through his actions and words, "I honestly have no idea, but it's not good. After Dumbledore told her of the news, she locked herself away inside the Burrow. When I found out, I sent Arthur to see her and I think he's been with her ever since Christmas. He's sent letters to the Delacours, saying that she's all right, but that's all I know. I really hope she can make it today ..."

"She won't be coming to the funeral?"

"I don't think she'd come even if she felt the need to," Harry sighed. "Yes, she has Arthur and Ginny, but ... Ron was her last son."

Hermione sucked in a painfully sharp breath and looked anywhere except at Harry, "Yes, he was," she whispered more to herself than to either of the males with her, and a brief silence filtered through the air before Harry cleared his throat.

"Because of her absence, though, I've mainly been the one organizing this, along with Dumbledore," Harry explained, trying to steer the conversation away from Hermione's heart, "I've tried my very best to make it into something Ron would've wanted, see? There's his family, related and otherwise, his friends both from Hogwarts and otherwise, teachers as well, and the eulogy Dumbledore will be reading includes humorous anecdotes about Ron and his life, because, well -"

"He would've wanted us to laugh," Hermione supplied, still not looking at him.

Harry nodded, "Yes, he would've." He then continued, "But, it hit me this morning that, along with laughter, Ron would've also wanted music to be played. Music, singing it and writing it, was his life, and I know more than anything that he would've wanted music to be played at his funeral, no matter when it arrived."

When Hermione made no response, Harry went on to say, "So, I've been busying myself most of today with options as to what could be played. You know as well as I do, Hermione, that there is a long list –

Blaise interrupted quietly, "- But weren't you reminded of Ron's relationship with Hermione?"

Hermione gave Blaise a muted, flat look, turning away from the conversation and occupying herself with Fleur, Gabrielle, and the rest of their family.

"I know serious they had grown to be," Blaise admitted, smiling very minimally at the memory.

Harry cleared his throat, "And, he had also told me of the song he had written for her and was going to sing to her as a Christmas gift. It's a beautiful song, actually. He had shown me the final draft of it, and I'm still surprised at how good it is. Best he ever wrote, in my opinion..."

Harry shook his head. "But, that was when I got the idea to have that song play at his funeral," he finished, and before Blaise could say anything, he added, "It's all planned out. I'll be singing it, knowing the lyrics like the back of my hand, and I already told Mrs. Weasley about it, and while she said nothing, she did give me a nod that it was okay to do, so it's all planned out."

"But?" Blaise prodded, knowing there was more.

"But," Harry repeated, "Ron wrote the song to be played with a piano, planning to play it while he sang it to Hermione. And, the piano is yet another musical instrument that I don't know how to play, the only one I am any good at being the xylophone. Hermione, on the other hand ..."

Harry trailed off, and there was a pregnant pause while Hermione excused herself from Fleur and turned back to the two boys. She exchanged a hard glance between Harry and Blaise, Harry eyeing her expectantly while Blaise seemed curious at the thought of her playing, before she released a soft sigh.

Finally, she said, "All right, Harry. I'll play."

A brief moment came where the smile Hermione recognized all too well returned to Harry, "Thank you, Hermione," he returned, and he moved around them, opening the doors to the chapel and slowly slipping in, "I'll see you in there," he said to them both, and disappeared behind the doors a second later.

Hermione and Blaise were left alone again, still standing before of the closed entrance. After a long time of nothing but silence and staring went by, Blaise cleared his throat and began to ask, "Are you sure this is what -"

"No," Hermione sharply answered before he could finish. She then opened the doors, and the two entered the chapel.

---

The chapel was a moderately small room. The setting sun of the outdoors shone through the stained-glass windows that lined the walls, creating a brilliantly colorful light over the few number of pews, outlining the narrow aisle that sat between them which led to the head of the room. There, after rising by three steps, one would reach Ron's casket, it being closed and decorated with a beautiful display of every flower known to man. To the left was a podium that Dumbledore already stood behind, silently observing those who were there. To the right was a simplistic piano, magically producing the forlorn tune that Hermione had overheard before entering.

Now in the chapel, though, the music was drowned out by all who were there, Hermione instantly being greeted by a chorus of murmured conversations coming from where people sat. Taking in the familiar and unfamiliar faces, Hermione quickly came to see that there was no specific arrangement towards seating, there being no divide, no line between who sat with whom. Those of British origin mingled with French, Fleur's family sitting with those families such as the Weasleys and the Abbots, mixed together in the row of pews, the different accents of the voices blending into the air.

Each person that was there, Hermione noticed, related to the other by the mutual fact that they had both loved and lost Ron.

In the first few pews to the right of the room, Hermione saw Fleur and Gabrielle Delacour sitting with together, the two already in quiet tears while Fleur's father sat consoling his wife and children. The Patil sisters talked softly with a row of students from Beauxbatons, or so Hermione assumed by the confused looks that frequented the twins' expressions, and behind them were McGonagall and the Headmistress of the French academy, Madame Maxime joining the conversation that was taking place between the Transfiguration teacher and Luna.

Across the aisle, there was Mr. Weasley with a few more students and teachers, as well as Fred and George's widows, who were talking to – surprisingly – Lavender Brown. Hermione's face twisted into a near replica of Draco Malfoy's infamous smirk, as she remembered their sixth year at Hogwarts. Two French females resided in the pew behind them, busy in a whispered exchange with Dean and Seamus. Inches away from Seamus was Hermione's silent family, all befuddled with the talk about Sectumsempra and Avada Kedavra.

Harry was not to be found, but Hermione did not pay much mind to that, instead noticing the first pew on the left. Ginny sat by herself in the row, silent and unmoving, her brown eyes unblinking as they remained fixed on Ron's casket only a few feet away.

At the back of the chapel, Blaise and Hermione resided in the last pew, their excuse being that they were the last to file in. Hermione, though, could not bear to be near all the grieving and mourning while she herself was on the edge of a breakdown. She had not cried yet. Closest to the aisle, Hermione did a full observation of those present before returning to where she had started, her gaze falling back onto where Dumbledore stood behind the podium. When she did, he caught her eye and gave her a sad smile, before straightening and flicking his hand, and the music from the piano silenced. The Headmaster then cleared his throat, the subdued noise managing to quiet each conversation that had been taking place, all eyes going to him.

And, bowing his head in return, Dumbledore began to speak.

"Thank you all for coming," he started, the funeral commencing with such a simple statement. "We are gathered here today to say goodbye to Ronald Weasley. This is not a goodbye that we give with ease, but with great difficulty, as this goodbye has come much too soon. Ron Weasley's death has come much too soon, his life taken away from him unexpectedly and right as he was on the edge of becoming an even more extraordinary young man than he already was. And, so we are gathered he today to say goodbye to him, a goodbye that we only give as we promise to never forget him and the many ways he touched our lives."

A painful sob pierced through the air from Gabrielle, and Fleur wrapped her arm around her sister, Dumbledore's despondent smile returning to him. "It has been said before, about many others, but Ron would have not wanted us to grieve over his death," he continued. "Ron would have wanted us to smile and laugh, and take advantage of how we are all here today as friends, as family, as one. And, Ron would have wanted us to listen - not to the words of this elderly man, nor to the tears that we shell shed on this day due to his parting, but to something more. Ron would have wanted us to listen to music, a magic he recognized as something beyond all that we know."

Dumbledore gestured to those before him. "So, before anything further, let us take a moment to listen to this music that Ron was so greatly fond of. Let us pause in our grief, our remorse, our tears that beg to be released, and simply do as he would have wanted us to do and smile. Let us fall into a moment of remembrance for Ron Weasley, and just listen."

With a nod of his head, Dumbledore stepped away from the podium and sat at one of the pews. As he did, Harry rose, and walked to the front, his head held high even as his movements breathed of hesitance. Pausing only a few inches away from Ron's casket, Harry turned to face the chapel and flicked his wand just so, a Sonorous microphone appearing in his hand.

He brought the piece to his mouth, the distinct sound of his breathing wafting through the air, but before he said anything, his eyes fell pointedly on Hermione. She clenched her jaw at the look, half tempted to ignore it, but her body acted on its own as she rose from her seat and joined him at the head of the room. Ignoring each gaze that followed her, Hermione sat at the piano, staring almost transfixed at the black and white keys before her until bringing her eyes back up to Harry.

Harry then proceeded. "This song was written by Ron as a Christmas present to the girl he had fallen in love with," he told those in the chapel, and Hermione found herself being scrutinized by the entirety of the room, save for Blaise. She gave Ginny a flickering glance only to see that the redhead held no reaction whatsoever. "It is the last song he wrote before his death, and now... it is the song played to remember his life."

Closing his eyes, Harry took in a soft breath. "To Ron Weasley ..." he whispered into the microphone, "My best friend. May your soul live on."

After a long moment, Harry reopened his eyes and gave Hermione a nod. And, it was then that Hermione began to play.

The song started softly, and this was partly due to Hermione herself. It had been quite some time since her touch had graced the keys of a piano, and while she certainly had not forgotten to play, there was a noticeable breath of hesitance to her movements, her fingers cautiously dancing against the keys. Her sounds barely made an impression against the solemn atmosphere of the chapel, but it was when Harry's voice soon appeared that a change was felt by those in the room.

_And, finally the silence  
Looking out, looking back across the sky   
Trying to find a meaning, knowing that I just left it all behind   
Still, I smell a lingering softness  
Where did she go, how did she go, I wanna, I wanna know  
I wanna know that she'll be coming here to me..._

Ron's lyrics poured strongly from Harry's lips, and everyone there was startled at how in control he was. Each word that left him was romantic and powerful and it was instantly able to lift away the feeling of sadness that had blanketed the air. As Harry sung, it was almost as though Ron was there again, singing with him, playing with Hermione, performing for those in the chapel, dancing along with them to the beat of his song, and just like he would have wanted, smiles did rise to the peoples' faces. Frowns faded, tears paused, immobility shattered, and there was actually a moment where everyone in the room was swaying, nearly singing, along to the song.

_Thinking back before her  
I never knew the meaning of alone  
Still, the flag is feeling foreign  
I live the day to escape into what I've always known  
Speaking of a world not real then  
Where did she go, how did she go, I wanna, I wanna know  
I wanna know that she'll be coming here to me..._

Even Hermione found herself enraptured by Harry's voice, by Ron's lyrics. As the song continued, her playing increased in strength, reaching a new level of intense while she and Harry slowly made their way towards the climax.

_She's coming, she's coming here to me  
I'm needing, desiring to kiss her now  
I'm living for her, breathing for her  
Singing for her fairytale..._

And, as the chorus broke over the room, Hermione was singing with him, her voice bleeding into Harry's, but still being heard as she hit the high notes of the lyrics and felt a rush run through her by singing, but just listening, that she had not felt in such a long time.

_Come on  
Without you, I'll never feel the love inside of me  
Come on, you know that we belong  
Come on, come on, come on, come on..._

When the song came to an end, however, Harry's voice broke on the last set of lyrics. "Come on, come on, come on ..." he sung, stumbling over the words as he fell into a whisper, and the microphone dropped from his grasp.

Hermione immediately softened the sound from the piano and soon silenced altogether, watching as Harry brought his hands up and buried his face into his palms, muffling his tears. Hermione raised herself from the piano and dropped to her knees in front of the crouched Harry, trying to sooth him, while trying her hardest not to break. The soft smiles of the room collided painfully into a wave of sobs, tears erupting from those in the room. Fleur and Gabrielle cried loudly, clutching each other. Mrs. Weasley, persuaded to attend, whimpered against her husband. McGonagall passed her handkerchief to Madame Maxime, wiping at her own wet eyes. Soft trails of tears threatened to lick down Hermione's face, and Ron's spirit placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, his lips barely stretched into that lopsided grin of his.

Still at the piano, Hermione looked around the room and observed it like she did at the beginning, and was reminded all over again how there was no divide between the people there, no difference between any of them as they even cried together. She stared at those around her, catching Blaise looking at her with a look of pure tenderness, and Harry sneaking in to the chapel unnoticed to all but her, and Ginny still alone in the first pew, still silent and the only one without tears.

And, Hermione just sat where she was, never missing someone as much as she missed Ron at that moment.

---

"You coming?"

Being one of the last in the chapel, Hermione stood before Ron's closed casket, hearing Blaise's question from behind her. When she gave him no response, Hermione heard him take a step forward, adding, "I'm actually going to head back home."

Hermione raised an eyebrow at the casket, and she heard Blaise shake his head, as if he had seen the expression. "I got an owl from my mum, and she and my step-dad are returning to the manor early," he explained. "I reasoned that that meant it was time for me to take my leave and return home, to fix things up."

Hermione nodded, but again made no sound. "I had your belongings kept at my house," he continued, admitting a beat later, "Because, I didn't know exactly where to send your stuff, so your trunk is currently sitting in the same quarters you lived in. Next to where I live"

After a short pause, Blaise added, "I also have the ability to find you a place to stay anywhere else, if need be."

When Hermione still voiced no reply, Blaise sighed quietly. "You need a moment alone here?" he asked.

Silence.

"I'll see you at home later tonight then?"

Again, silence.

"Yes. Right then." Blaise nodded. "Take your time. I'll see you there."

With that, Hermione listened to Blaise leave, and soon she was the only one left in the chapel, her own lack of noise breaching the room itself and silence descending upon her as well as the shadows from outside that stretched through the windows. There was an ethereal feeling to the room now that Hermione was by herself, remaining still in front of Ron's casket, and there was a moment, a quiet second that arrived, where Hermione almost had herself taking another step forward, reaching out, and touching the casket almost as though going to open it up...

But, Hermione did not dare to act on such a fleeting thought, and instead moved with a different purpose. Slowly, she pulled something out of the interior pocket of her coat, and Hermione then brought in front of her the Christmas gift Ron had given her the night of his death. She had not opened it then, and certainly had not thought about opening it since, but at that point, Hermione cautiously began to do so, pulling off the decorative paper gently to reveal what she soon discovered to be a Muggle tape player.

There was nothing to indicate why Ron had given her this gift except for a small tab taped to the Play button that Hermione found upon observation of the medium-sized object. "Just listen," Hermione read aloud, following the familiar script with her eyes, and with one glance at his casket, Hermione pressed the button, and the machine whirred to life as the tape inside started to play.

There was a muffled sound, some coughing, and then Hermione heard it.

"Uh, yeah? This thing on?"

Ron's voice echoed from the speakers and entered the air. Hermione shivered at the sound, like she had just been touched by a ghost rather than had heard a simple recording. "Bloody hell, I grew up with a Muggle obsessed father, you'd think I'd know how to work this thing ..." Ron grumbled, and there was a dull thud before he spoke again. "It's on? You're on? Okay! Here we go!"

Ron cleared his throat. "So, I bet you're wondering what the hell I'm doing, aren't you, Granger?"

Hermione nodded. "A bit, yes," she responded, fooling herself for second into believing that he could actually hear her.

"Well, remember how I said that I wrote you a song for a Christmas present?" he asked, and Hermione nodded for a second time. "I left out the fact that I made another one, slightly different, also for you," Ron snickered at himself, going on, "Yes, I wrote you another song, Granger. And, while I did have the option of singing it to you, there were ... future difficulties that I faced that made that choice not very promising."

Again, Hermione shuddered. "But!" Ron continued, "I had to give you your gift somehow, and again, I had the option of just handing you the lyrics, but that would have totally ruined the effect. So, what does the genius that I am do? I go out and purchase a Muggle tap – what? It's a tape? Oh, well, Granger, I have just now been informed that this is indeed a tape player, not a tap player, and I have made a recording of the song to give to you. Which, as I'm sure you've deduced by now, is fairly insane."

"A bit, yes," Hermione repeated, and Ron chuckled, right on cue.

"But, as well all have come to terms with by now, I'm not exactly sane. Certainly not to the level of, say, Luna Lovegood, but I am definitely my own brand of insanity. And, now I'm babbling as well ..." There was a shuffle of movement, like Ron had stumbled over something, and Hermione heard him curse beneath his breath.

Hermione couldn't help but smirk. "You hate making speeches before singing." She said to the empty room.

"I hate making speeches before singing," Ron echoed, making Hermione jump. "I stumble over everything and I speak in tangents and I basically lose any form of vocabulary and ..." The boy sighed, talking more to himself than to her as he said, "All right, Weasley, back on track. No digressing. Just get to the point already, you bloody ponce."

For another time, Ron cleared his throat. "Right. This song is dedicated to you, Granger, as not only a Christmas gift, but as a gift in general, for the girl I love."

He paused briefly, and Hermione swore that she could hear him smiling. "I started writing this song not long after I realized I was talented in this one area – music. Naturally, I wrote it about you, though I was only 14 at the time, and we squabbled all the bloody time. And, I didn't finish this song until a few hours ago, December 19, 1997."

"It's taken me three years to write this song for you," Ron informed, his grin being heard through his words. "Three years. The exact amount of time it took me to fall absolutely head over heels in love with you. This song is dedicated to you, Granger. It's _for_ you. And, I... well, I hope you like it..."

There was a shuffle of movement. "Follow me on piano, will you?" Ron requested, and tape player in hand, Hermione nodded and walked back to the piano to the right of his casket, sitting back down at the seat.

The black and white keys were illuminated before her amongst the shadows that continued to play about the chapel, and placing the tape player where the sheet music would normally go, Hermione rested her fingers against the keys for the second time that day. "Ready?" she heard Ron ask her, and Hermione closed her eyes before bowing her head, feeling as though he can see her as the sound of his voice seeps into the air.

He first hummed the tune, and catching onto the initial notes, Hermione soon followed his voice with a soft series of piano keys. In contrast to the previous song, this piece had a more bittersweet touch to it, but still held the immediate ability to provoke tears, something that was proven quickly once Ron began to sing and Hermione's eyes started to sting.

_All of my answers and all my reasons  
And, all my excuses they never asked  
'Cause all of my answers, they keep on changing  
I spend my life waiting for the next..._

Ron's voice, each sound that left him, was beautifully heartbreaking. And, even though Harry had the talent of mimicking him, Hermione realized as she listened that there was nothing that could amount to hearing Ron himself sing.

_And, all their illusions, I won't believe them  
I'll always believe what I can't forget  
'Cause all of their reasons, they keep on changing  
I spend my life waiting for the next..._

The cool brush of his notes, the hypnotic lyrics that melt away from his lips, Ron's words traveled gracefully, nearly painfully, into the air and blended harmoniously with Hermione's piano keys. And, even though it was only a recording, Hermione realized as she closed her eyes and played that there was nothing that could amount to the hurt she felt at the sound of his voice.

_No, I just keep on moving  
No, I just keep on pushing forward  
No, I forgot what I was looking for..._

The song slowly came to an end, the last set of lyrics that Ron sung sounding as though they were crying themselves.

_I'd trade wisdom back in for innocence  
to get away from all my lies   
I'd trade wisdom back in for innocence  
to get away from getting by  
I'd trade wisdom back in for innocence  
just for one look through those eyes..._

And, then all was silent.

Fingers paused against the piano keys, Hermione stared at the tape, believing that it was to be over. Before she could reach out and take it back into her grasp, however, Ron's voice crackled back to life.

"I don't know where I'll be when you hear this," he admitted, sounding sad, and Hermione froze in her spot. "And, no matter where I am, you might just hate me for being there. You might just blame yourself for me being there..."

"Don't, Granger," Ron stated, his words gaining a new breath of strength. "As Dumbledore told us at the beginning of the year, there is a moment in everyone's life where something looks back at us, stares at us right in the eye, and says, 'This is important. This is your decision. What are you going to do about it?' This is what I'm doing about it, Granger. This is my choice. So, don't blame yourself for what I have decided to do."

Hermione swallowed hard. "You knew what you were doing."

"I know what I'm doing," Ron assured her, "I've known all along. Please remember that, and also know that, no matter what happens, I am with you, always, whether you like it or not. Even if you can't see me, if I'm not annoyingly standing right next to you, know that I am there... just listen, and I am."

There was a long pause, a soft sigh from Ron being heard. "Take care of... Ginny and mum... of everyone, for me. And, yourself. Don't ever give up on the ones that you love... don't ever lose hope. And, know that... I will always love you, Hermione -"

Ron's sentence was cut off abruptly, and the tape came to a sharp end. As it did, silence filling the chapel once more, it was almost as though the world had suddenly suffered from a power shortage itself, the atmosphere surrounding Hermione becoming painfully empty and the shadows that comprise the room only darkening.

Hermione was immobile in the darkness, positively still on the piano bench. As it was around her, everything inside of her was quiet until what felt like a very long time had passed and numbing thoughts whispered in her mind. The poison that still roamed inside of her was provoked by a sharp twinge of betrayal, and out of nowhere, Hermione was very angry at Ron, at who had killed him, at everyone. At no one but herself.

"You bastard," she hissed, lowering her head as words pierced from her lips. "You knew all along what you were doing, didn't you? You knew all along that you were saying goodbye, that you were leaving Mrs. Weasley and Harry and Ginny and ... and me."

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath, feeling her chest wince. "You ... _bastard_," she seethed darkly, torn between rage and anguish. "You goddamn _bastard_. I ... hate you, Ron Weasley ... I hate -!"

Before she could finish, Hermione choked on her words, and she brought one hand to her mouth in fear that she was suffocating on her own oxygen. Her fingers grazed over her lips, she felt then the cool sensation of tears kissing her skin, and the realization that she was crying hit her like a knife through her heart.

Hermione dropped her face into the palm of her hands, and, for the first time since Ron's death, she cried, and she cried, and she cried ...

--

Minutes before midnight of December 31, Hermione found herself alone in the Great Hall. Even though the snow from outside chilled the interior of the school, she wore but a thin, white nightgown, her hair down and carefree as she moved like a whisper further into the room.

Contrary to her movements and the expression she wore, Hermione was not in a daze, being the farthest from it, in fact. If anything, she was permanently awake, drained of feeling from Ron's funeral only hours earlier, but having the sense that she was on the verge of another emotional breakdown at the very same time. Insomnia viewed her head as its personal playground, and Hermione was fine with that, refusing sleep as of late in unison to it refusing her.

As opposed to her Christmas where she rejected every thought, Hermione's mind was alive and not daring to let her shut it off like she had tried before. But, Hermione took it in stride, allowing her constant thoughts to pull her deeper into the Great Hall, not stopping until she reached the teacher's table at the head of the room.

With a flick of her wand, the table disappeared, and with another twist, a simplistically beautiful piano materialized in its space. Hermione had fallen in love with the musical instrument all over again thanks to playing it at Ron's funeral, and caught in the night with nothing else to do, she decided then to play it once more, surveying the gleam of the black and white keys.

Slowly, Hermione eased herself into the seat and placed her fingers on the keys. She closed her eyes, and she took a deep breath, waiting. Waiting for nothing, for everything. Waiting to listen.

And, as the clock chimed midnight, Hermione began to play her way into the New Year.

_The crowds __roar__, the days __soar__, the babies __cry__, without __**you**__.  
The moon __glows__, the river __flows__, but I __die__, without __**you**_


End file.
